Little Children

Tonight, my fingers knit with a frenzy I've never known.
The smell of blood hangs in the air, stronger than ever.
Around midnight, the Marquis shoots past the shop window in that fancy carriage of his like a wild Devil, and seconds later I hear a bone-shattering crunch and the horrible wailing of a young child.
I knit faster.
I hear the Devil Man speak outside the window with an air of infuriating indifference, and followed by the bitter laments of a man called Gaspard, who is evidently the miserable child's father.
The men step into the streetlight. The Devil Man, with his chin held high, is clad in a lavish gold coat that is splattered in dark, innocent blood. With a flick of his wrist, he hands Gaspard a meagar amount of coins, as though that should suffice for the boy lying dead at his wheels. This man is not just a haughty, apathetic aristocrat, he is no mere Devil.
The Marquis IS France.
I knit. My hands have separated from my body, my needles flying.
Without another word, the Devil Man sticks a curled golden toe back into the carriage, lifts himself in, and speeds his way through the town once more. But before he disappears, I swear I see a flash of a demented grin on his face.
And I smile too. Before the week is over, the Marquis will die. I'll have my way.
I close my eyes and see the red again, deeper still.